


And Be My Love (in the rain)

by Bookish_Moose



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2018-03-08 17:26:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3217451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookish_Moose/pseuds/Bookish_Moose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the kink meme in response to a prompt asking for fluffy, snowed-in, cabin sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Be My Love (in the rain)

“Storm’s coming,” Blackwall says. “Maker, will you look at those waves.”

His blade glances off the dragonling’s thick scales, ringing through the frigid air. The creature rears backwards, craning its head towards Evelyn and Blackwall lunges after it. Rain has made the slope they fight on slick with mud and his boots slide as he throws his weight into his shield. He groans as his knees hit grass and the hard stones beneath. The noise attracts the creature’s notice and Evelyn takes advantage of its inattention, landing a hard blow to its side with the pommel of her maul. Blackwall hears the crunch of silverite against bone, the scrabbling of the dragonling’s claws against the hillside, its screeching hiss and rolls to the side as the lizard careens down the slope into the sea.

“It’s the Storm Coast,” Evelyn says, shrugging and offering him a hand. “That’s why they call it that.”

He takes it, not too proud to accept the help. Not here. 

She’s right, of course. He can’t remember having been here without rain running down his neck, soaking the underpadding of his armor, but this is different. The rain today chills him through his bones and makes his joints ache like he’s decades older than he is. Evelyn knows it, too, despite her protest to the contrary. He can see it in the way her brow furrows as she looks out on the water and in her deep breaths that hang like smoke in the air. The surface of the sea heaves upwards, crashing high up on the shoreline-too high. 

“We’ll need shelter,” she says. “That fishing cabin should do.”

“Fishing cabin?” he asks, following her gaze to the top of the nearest hill. “You mean that one there, with the big hole in the roof and no windows?”

She nods. “Harding and her men have been using it for storage. She says they’ve fixed it up since we found it. We should be able to get some food and dry clothing.”

The rain has turned to sleet now, and Blackwall knows there isn’t any other option. The hill is too steep, the ground too wet and muddy to climb back down and the low, dense clouds in the distance are rolling in quickly. He sighs heavily, the cold air catching in his lungs.

“After you, my lady.”

They climb quickly, avoiding patches of mud where they can. Evelyn’s gaze lingers on the ocularum outside the cabin’s door, flits between it and the approaching storm, gauging her time, he supposes. Ever the explorer, his Evie. She takes a step towards it, even as fat droplets of water drip from her bangs into her eyes. Blackwall’s fingers find her elbow and he struggles to hide the amused smile that tugs at his mouth. “It’ll be here when the storm passes.” 

Her eyes slide reluctantly from the skull and soften when they find his. “Let’s get warmed up.”

The cabin is nicer than Blackwall remembers. Harding has done a good job, not that that surprises him. The roof has been thatched and glass fitted into the windows, but there are still small gaps in the walls where the wind rushes through. Nevertheless, it’ll suit. Evelyn busies herself immediately, lighting fires in the wall braziers and rummaging elbow-deep in a barrel for a piece of rope to make a clothesline. 

“Come to the coast, she said. You can go fishing, she said. It’ll be like a vacation,” Blackwall teases under his breath. He knows this isn’t the excursion Evelyn had planned, either. 

“This isn’t quite the way I imagined the weekend going when I suggested it. Perhaps the storm will pass quickly.” She tosses him one end of the length of rope and gestures to the far side of the cabin. “Hang that over there for me, will you? At least we can get out of these wet clothes.”

Blackwall quirks an eyebrow at her, smiling at the flush that rises on her cheeks. He’s not a flirter, not like she is, so he keeps his quips to himself. She holds his gaze, though, and knots her end of the rope around a low beam on the ceiling. He does the same.

“I don’t believe it,” she says, turning to gaze out the window. Blackwall joins her, his front pressed to her back, and wraps his arms around her waist. “Snow, on the Storm Coast. It’s…well, about as expected as an ancient darkspawn Tevinter magister, but those don’t come around every day, you know.”

“Thank the Maker.”

She leans her head back against his shoulder and sighs. A moment’s peace before she is gone again, this time sorting through a box of food, making a neat little pile of dried goods. Her fingers move constantly, never lingering for more than a few seconds. Blackwall understands the itch, the need to be useful, to have purpose and so lets her fuss. It’s a burden of command, one that does not lighten in peacetime. He recalls the deep, relentless restlessness that plagued him after Callier, once he was no longer a soldier and not yet a liar. He had found relief at the bottom of a glass. He hopes Evelyn will manage better. 

A gust of wind shakes the cabin, then and he remembers his damp clothing. Evelyn must be freezing, he realizes and, indeed, when he looks her teeth are chattering and her fingers fumble with the flint as she tries to light some kindling in the fire pit. 

She must notice his gaze because she laughs and says, “Almost makes me wish one of us were a mage.”

Before he can think of a witty response, the flint sparks and catches the dry straw. Evelyn bends down on hands and knees and blows gently on the fire. “And without any magic. Grab some wood off the pile, will you?”

Someone, perhaps one of Harding’s scouts, has left a pile of chopped lumber just inside the door and Blackwall kneels next to it, handing a few small branches to Evelyn. Her fingers are red and frail looking as they take the wood from him and he wants nothing more than to take them between his and warm them. He watches her as she watches the fire she has started and the room is silent for a few minutes, save the crackling of dry wood and the wind howling outside. She has been so distant lately, adrift in her own thoughts. He wants her to share them, wants to ask her about them, but instead he takes her frigid hand in his and brushes a soft kiss across the knuckles. 

***

Evelyn sits cross-legged on a pile of pelts, toweling water from Blackwall’s breastpiece with one sleeve of his padded coat while the rest of their clothing hangs drying. The air is thick with the smell of stew and the howling of wind around the cabin. Snow has begun to pile against the door, almost knee-deep the last time she checked, just before nightfall. It’s shaping up to be quite a storm. She finishes with the cuirass and sets it gently on the growing pile of dry armor, reaching next for one of her gauntlets. 

“It is alright to relax, you know,” Blackwall says, a smile pulling at the edges of his mouth as he watches her from where he sits at the table, chopping carrots to add to the stew. “It’s all silverite-it won’t rust.”

He worries about her. He shouldn’t, but the thought makes her heart tighten happily in her chest. She sets the gauntlet down and crosses the small cabin, leaning over him and wrapping her arms over his shoulders. “For something that started out as a sack of beans and dried venison, that smells divine. My compliments to the chef.”

“The chef would prefer more than just your compliments, my lady,” he says. “This has a while yet to cook.”

The scent of wood smoke lingers on his hair as she presses her lips to his neck. He sets the knife on the table, pushing it and the carrots away, and turns. His eyes are dark, pupils wide, and the look in them sends a shiver down Evelyn’s spine that has nothing to do with the storm outside and everything to do with the fact that she wants him. 

She straddles him, fingers sliding into the soft hair at the back of his neck and kisses him. The breath rushes from her as his lips tug at hers, pliant, yielding, and yet demanding and his hair tangles within her grasp just as the thin fabric of her tunic bunches within his. Her teeth pull at the smooth flesh of his lower lip, her fingers spreading over his shoulders, and he runs his hands up the bare skin of her legs, then down again, up and down, over and over, higher, until her tunic is bunched around her waist and his fingers press firmly into the small of her back. A heavy knot of desire drops low in her belly and her hands tremble on his neck. One of Evelyn’s knees creeps up along his side and her body shifts forward, hips angling against Blackwall’s. The contact sparks something sharp and desperate behind her navel, and she pulls her mouth from his in a sharp gasp. She presses her hips down again more deliberately this time and Blackwall groans. 

“Was this more what you had in mind?” Evelyn asks, pressing her forehead to his and kissing his cheek softly.

“We’re certainly getting there.”

His fingers tug at the tie binding the end of her braid and comb through the coppery blonde strands. He fists a handful at the base of her scalp pulls, gentle but firm, baring the column of her throat. Anticipation creeps along the bared skin and then his beard, teeth, tongue move against her neck, scraping, biting, soothing, and Evelyn sighs and rolls her hips again, more desperately this time, bracing herself against the broad planes of his chest. Almost of their own accord, her fingers find the loose neck of his shirt, twisting around it and prying at the leather laces that cross his sternum. They come loose and she nudges at the shirt’s hemline, willing it off his body, needing the warmth of his bare skin within the circle of her arms. 

Ever responsive, Blackwall pulls away from her and drags the heavy, dark linen over his head. Much as Evelyn dislikes how his padded coat hides his body, she envies the effective barrier it provides from the elements. The linen shirt is his own, dry despite everything, and his scent lingers on it as he tosses it aside, all sawdust and musk and straw. It’s almost embarrassing, really, how much she needs him, how desperate she is suddenly. They’ve hardly been a few days without one another’s company since Blackwall’s return from Val Royeaux, even less since Corypheus’ defeat. There’s something about this, though, here, with no demands on her time or mind, no interruptions and the whole evening stretched out before them that makes Evelyn need to sink onto him and lose herself. 

She whines, desperate for more, more of him and she buries her face in the crook of his neck. Blackwall groans softly and then his hands are on her hips, pulling until the heat of her cunt is flush against him and she can feel his cock, stiff and warm, pressed tight against the laces of his trousers. Her fingers play with his waistband, moving to loosen the fabric, but he catches them in his and places them deliberately on her thighs. Evelyn pulls back and leans her forehead against his.

“Not yet,” he says, lips twisting into a smirk. “I want to see you undone, first.”

His words pull the air from her lungs.

His hands skim up the outsides of her thighs, pressing into the sturdy muscle. She is wet, so slick that she can hardly stand it when his fingers flick against her smalls, gentle pressure at first, then soft stroking, his middle finger dancing the length of her slit. Every breath brings with it a soft wine and Evelyn writhes against his hand. Faster and faster his fingers move across the damp fabric. Heat flashes across her skin and she presses her breasts against Blackwall’s chest, needing more, more. 

Firmly as he grips her waist, a single soft touch of her hand is all it takes for Blackwall to release her. Her breasts are small, barely enough for him to grab, especially compared to the fleshiness of her thighs and her wide-set hips, but they are sensitive and when his free hand closes over one Evelyn moans loudly. 

She surges against him as his fingers pluck softly at her nipple. The pressure of his fingers and scrape of her tunic against the delicate skin of her breasts go straight to her clit. Evelyn presses her legs together, pushes against his hand, thrusts against him, anything she can to allay the hot need between her thighs. 

Blackwall’s fingers move impossibly faster.

A strange sort of panicky pleasure bubbles up in her stomach, almost too much, too fast. She wraps her fingers around Blackwall’s shoulders, anchoring herself as her hips move frantically. Her mouth drops open, her eyes are wide, locked onto his, her breath comes in great, heaving gasps, her body is glass and he is hurtling her over the edge, and finally she shatters, coming sharply against his fingers.

Relief washes over her and she relaxes into Blackwall as the climax fades. She pulls the tunic over her head and drops it to the floor, then twines her arms around his neck, resting fully against his chest. 

Her eyelids are heavy as she presses a sluggish kiss to his neck and she laughs softly. “I’m taking you fishing more often, if you’re going to do that.”

“You won’t get any argument from me.” His hands ghost over her back and Evelyn shivers, curling closer. “Maker, Evie, you’re freezing.”

“That happens sometimes when it was really good.” She laughs again, musses his hair with trembling fingers. 

Blackwall’s strong hands cup her ass and suddenly she is in the air. He drops her gently on the pair of cots Evelyn had pushed together near the fire earlier and drapes a heavy blanket and some furs over her. She watches him for a few moments, admiring the lean bulk of his muscles as he drops the carrots, pushed aside earlier, into the stew pot over the fire. The hearty, savory scent fills the cabin as he stirs and it’s so comforting that Evelyn’s eyes drift closed. 

She doesn’t realize she’s dozed off until she feels the cot next to her sag under his weight. His body is so warm next to her that she can’t help pushing back into him. He is naked now, too, and despite the fact that her limbs are still shuddering from her orgasm, his bare skin makes her cunt ache. His arm is heavy over her hip. His fingers spread across the flat of her belly, drawing her close.  
Evelyn shifts in his arms, pulling her smalls down her legs and kicking them out from under the blankets. His cock is hard and heavy, pressed between her ass and his belly. She doesn’t think he means to be thrusting gently against her, but he is nonetheless. He hums a happy noise against her shoulder when she grinds against him. 

Rolling over, Evelyn drapes a leg high over his hip and tilts her head up to kiss him. Blackwall responds immediately, perhaps instinctively even, wrapping a hand around her ribcage, just to the side of her breast. Her tongue grazes the seam of his lips, sliding along the tender flesh just inside when he opens his mouth. Reaching between them, she finds his cock warm and stiff. He must be aching by now, she realizes, and she scoots towards the head of the cot to line his head up with her entrance. He twitches within her hand.

Blackwall pulls back from her kiss. “You’re sure? You aren’t too tired?”

Evelyn is exhausted, but more than that she is empty.

“I’m positive,” she says, her words turning to a gasp as he thrusts upwards, steadily, until he is fully inside her.

He groans. “Oh, Evie. How can you be this wet? It’s obscene.”

She loves it, the filth that sometimes pours from his mouth when he’s fucking her. “You’ve only got yourself to thank for that, I think.”

“Remind me to buy myself a fucking pint when we get back to Skyhold.”

His thrusts are slow, deliberate, stretching her, filling her almost until it hurts. Angling her hips a bit, she leaves his mouth and worries the delicate skin of his neck between her front teeth, moaning when his next thrust brushes that spot behind her clit that makes her still-drowsy eyes snap open. She wraps her leg more tightly around him, clenching around his cock to hold him there. He tries to withdraw but she moves with him and so he rocks back into her. They hardly move, rocking together, and it’s exactly what Evelyn craves. The thick head of his cock rubs just where she needs him inside and his pubic bone presses rhythmically against her clit. The pressure is dizzying.

Blackwall is panting now, practically growling. 

“You feel good,” he groans. “Maker, you’re so tight. Are you going to come for me?”

She nods against his neck, tongue joining her teeth and lips to taste him. He’ll have a bruise tomorrow, if he doesn’t put any healing salve on it. 

“Come for me, Evie, come on,” he urges. “I want to feel you come.”

His words and the vibration of his throat beneath her lips are her undoing. The climax is deeper this time, full and satisfying, and she hardly notices that Blackwall stiffens along with her. His hands grasp her ass, pulling her onto him, steadying her as he empties himself. 

Blackwall rolls onto his back, pulling Evelyn into the crook of his arm. If she was tired before, now she is exhausted and boneless. Soon they will have to get up. The stew will boil, the storm will calm and they will trudge through the snow after shards and back to Skyhold. For now, though, she murmurs soft endearments against his chest and lets the howling wind and his heavy, steady breaths lull her to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Set at Morrin's Outlook on the Storm Coast, in case you were curious!


End file.
